


Tear Up This Town

by distanceseventeen



Series: Tear Up This Town [1]
Category: Deltarune (Video Game), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (Part 2 Electric Boogaloo), Arson Buddies, Body Horror, Complicated Relationships, Dark Humor, Gen, Homesickness, Neurodivergent Kris, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Prompt Fic, Timeline Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-01-26 19:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21379429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distanceseventeen/pseuds/distanceseventeen
Summary: Kris isn't Chara. Flowey isn't Asriel. Neither of them will ever fill the role the other's sibling left behind. Neither of them want to.They need each other anyway.
Series: Tear Up This Town [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558054
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67





	Tear Up This Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doyouhearthunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doyouhearthunder/gifts).

> _Some days I rage like a fire in the wilderness_  
_Some days I only need the darkness and a place to rest_  
-Keane, [Tear Up This Town](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=ci8MSacQd04)
> 
> Credit to [doyouhearthunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doyouhearthunder) for bringing up the idea of Kris and Flowey knowing each other's secrets! I had a lot of fun rambling about the messed-up friendship these two have.
> 
> Mild trigger warning for body horror. Flowey loves his distorted faces.

"Four."

"No. Go fish."

The new card joins its mates in their hand. The glossy surface reflects a smudge of midafternoon sunshine. A tiny smile.

"Six."

"Go fish."

A grumble. Vines slither out and grab a new card.

"Nine."

"How do you always do so well at this game?" 

"Luck." They take his offered card and lay it down among the other sets they've collected.

"Well, your luck _ sucks."_

Given his lack of opposable thumbs, Flowey prefers to lay his cards on the ground and set up a partition so Kris can't see his hand. It's an easy system, setting the deck in a spot both can reach, and handing the cards over the top of the setup. Now he knocks the partition over and glares up at them. "I'm bored. Let's play a different game. Or play a prank on someone."

Kris' lips twitch. "You're just mad you're losing."

He scoffs. "I hate card games. They're boring. I get that we're just killing time, but wouldn't you rather kill time a different way? Like playing some video games? I get why you don't like those, but maybe something retro wouldn't upset--"

"No." The refusal echoes in the spaces where their chest is still cold. They stare him down from under their curtain of bangs. "We're doing something else."

Flowey holds their gaze for only a moment. Sensing their finality, he looks away and makes the little motion that they've come to recognize as a shrug. The brief tension passes. "Fine. You wanna set some stuff on fire?"

"Why is your go-to plan always arson?"

"It's fun! I love the destruction! Fire is cool! It's fun trying to burn things that don't usually burn! And you're funny when you try to toast marshmallows in the remains of whatever thing we set on fire."

"Frisk asked us to stop setting fires after the last time," they remind him. "Remember how upset Toriel was?"

"Look at you being a goody two-shoes. We'll just make sure the fire doesn't spread this time, and that we're in a more secluded place. You know you wanna."

Normally, Kris would say no. Flowey pouts about it, but he generally doesn't pull any mischief without them. He'll just wander off to play video games. They can read a book. Another peaceful afternoon will pass, Frisk will arrive home from their meeting at the embassy, and the three of them can spend some time together. The whole idea seems stale. They've been sitting around in this house for far too long. They're stagnating.

"Fine. We'll find a secluded bit of the town."

Flowey grins. The soil in his pot sprouts a few vines. He scuttles across the bedroom carpet like an awful little spider. It's as strange a sight as it was the first time they saw it, but they're used to it by now. At least he doesn't crawl around on the ceiling anymore, not since the great paint spill incident.

While he scrabbles away under their bed, looking for something, Kris lays back on the rug and stares at the ceiling. Just like at home, there's pasted-on stars. The sight doesn't make them ache anymore. After six months of being stuck in this world, they have to admit that their homesickness is fading. 

It's an odd sensation. They still worry about Asriel, Susie, and their parents, of course. Kris' disappearance is probably driving the entire town crazy. But every day, Hometown feels farther and farther away. When they try to think about their favorite places and people, all that comes back is a dull, empty ache. Something tangible has to catch them off-guard for them to feel actual pain. The taste of the queen's butterscotch-cinnamon pie, just slightly different than the kind their own mom makes. The king's flower gardens. The way the air smells outside. Those can knock them down and wring something out of them. The rest of the time, Kris simply carries around a mild ache. It's as if their soul is in the birdcage once again.

"Here," Flowey says, pleased. He returns to where they are. "Got the matches. And lighter fluid."

They don't roll over to look at him. They tap their fingers idly against their stomach, turning their body into a keyless piano. Nothing in them resonates like it should. 

They're forgetting Asriel. Not completely, not all at once. But after so long without him, they're starting to lose the edges of his voice. They don't remember what his laugh sounded like anymore. His precise eye color is fading from their memory. Small pieces of their big brother, dropping out of their mind bit by bit. Someday, like this world's Toriel and Asgore, they'll only remember a caricature of him. They can see the process in motion. It scares them.

Kris wonders if the same thing is happening to him. If he's trying to hang on to them as best he can, or if in all his worry for them, he's forgotten what their favorite color and least favorite texture are. They wonder if he's passing any of his college classes, or if he's dropped out because of their disappearance. They wonder how badly his anxiety is affecting his day-to-day life. They wonder if he's given them up for dead yet.

Dr. Alphys needs to have a breakthrough soon. This waiting is going to be the death of them.

"Hey," Flowey says. "You look like you're in a mood."

They look over at him. It takes a moment for them to formulate a response. "Third pair of teeth is growing in. Kind of hurts. Soon I'll be able to chew through cement."

"Neat. You do know I've already heard that one, don't you? Frisk told me it isn't true."

"They could be wrong. Maybe humans from my world are different than the ones here."

He gives them his sharpest grin. "Fine. You'll let me rip your jaw open so I can get a look, then."

"Please do. Getting half my face ripped off is my only dream." They sit up. "Can you imagine how sick my Halloween costume would be?"

His face morphs into something similar to Toriel. In an eerily accurate imitation of her, he says, "Oh, this is Kris! They are imitating a B-list horror creature! Yes, the blood is real -- they are quite committed to their art!"

A smile tugs at Kris' mouth. They flick the center of his forehead. "Quit showing off like that. It's creepy."

His face melts. Black goo dribbles down the side of his mouth. His eyes sink into his head. The voice he speaks in still sounds like Toriel, but it's far more distorted. "You do not yet understand true creepiness. The depths of horror are infinitely dark, infinitely devouring, eternal. I will show you fear in handfuls of dust, and--"

"Do you crib all your monologues from shi-- crappy horror novels?"

His face reverts back to normal in an instant. He's grinning. "Swear jar. Pay up."

Kris rolls their eyes. "I didn't actually say it."

"You were close." He's grinning even wider, faux-innocence and schadenfreude fighting for control of his mouth. "Gee golly, Kris, if Frisk heard you, you'd be in big trouble. You'd corrupt their innocent l'il mind."

"They aren't here. Also, you're talking like I wasn't there when they flipped you off two weeks ago. They didn't pay that time."

"Fine then. I'm here. I'm only a few months old. Don't corrupt little old me."

"You are _ not _ a few months old."

"I sure am. Deleted timelines and past incarnations don't count! As far as everyone but you and Frisk are concerned, I'm a precious little baby."

"Uh huh."

"I am! It's the world that's made me this way. It's so full of people who don't pay when they do the wrong thing."

Kris gives in. "Fine. Give me those matches and the lighter fluid. Toriel's gonna lose it if she sees us with them again."

"What's she gonna do, ground you? You're just gonna sneak out again."

Kris shrugs, taking the offending items and stuffing them in their pockets. They pick Flowey up and exit the room. Their socked feet make no sound against the floorboards.

When they peek into the kitchen, they find it empty. Toriel often spends her time in this big room, doing paperwork at the kitchen table or cleaning or cooking, but she's not here. A quick glance out the window reveals that she isn't in the backyard either. Good. Kris puts Flowey down on the counter. The swear jar on the windowsill is already half full, a result of Asgore and Toriel's loud phone argument last week. Their coin plinks against the others.

"What are we gonna burn down today? Abandoned tool sheds? Some of Toriel's stuff?"

"Your life." They open up the snack cupboard. They don't feel hungry at the moment, but it's rare that their body acknowledges hunger at all. It's best to just get a snack and drink whenever they're in the kitchen. 

"My life? You mean my soulless existence consumed by boredom? My imprisonment in a floral body with the inability to develop meaningful relationships with anyone? That life? It's already on fire!"

"Okay, edgelord."

"It's not edgy to know the facts, Kris. You're just too idealistic to think otherwise."

"Okay, edgelord."

Footsteps down the hall chase away their improved mood. They quit rummaging through the cupboard and snatch up Flowey's pot. They're halfway to the back door when the voice stops them. "Kris?"

_ Dammit. _They turn to see the queen standing at the kitchen's entrance.

It's always weird, looking at her. They stick to calling her Toriel, to distinguish her from their actual mom, but it feels strange to do that too. The name always sticks in their mouth. She's different than their mom, in so many ways, but it doesn't make it easier. Their eyes can't stop picking out the tiny differences. She holds herself differently than Kris' mom, wears colors slightly darker, speaks louder. She looks younger -- she stopped aging when her son died -- but her demeanor is much older. Looking at her gives Kris the same off-balance sensation as a bout of déjà vu. They can't get used to her. 

"Where are you two going?" she asks.

"Oh, we're just going to play in the backyard," Flowey says, all false cheer. They can't see his face, but they can hear how sharp-edged his smile is. The sugar in his tone doesn't hide the challenge in his words. "You wouldn't want us to be locked inside all day!"

Toriel's gaze is searching. Kris looks away when her eyes travel to their face. Their shoulders hunch inwards. "Make sure you stay in the backyard, children. The relations between humans and monsters are still quite strained. A misplaced prank could reflect badly on our community, no matter how harmless your intentions."

Kris's grip tightens on the flowerpot in their arms. _ Stop trying to control me _ and _ I'm sorry for worrying you so often _ both spring to mind, ready to be said. As usual, they say nothing. A knot is pulling tight in their stomach. They can taste her implicit rebuke hanging in the air like ozone. 

"Thanks, Toriel." Flowey's voice drips with syrup. "We'll take your advice very, very seriously. Do you know when Frisk is coming home?"

"Late. Their meeting today is a very important one. I was going to make a nice treat for when they get home. Would you like to assist me? You can tell me about all the books you have been reading, Kris. And you can tell me about what games you have been playing, Flowey."

"Golly, that's such a compelling offer! But we're gonna have to pass. Come on, Kris."

Kris takes the cue and hurries out before Toriel can say anything else. They can feel her gaze on their back as they shuffle into the hall. Their boots are waiting at the back door, but Kris doesn't stop to put them on. They simply scoop them up and head onto the back porch.

Outside, the sun is hiding behind a cover of clouds. There's a chilly breeze blowing over the tiny yard, but since Kris is usually cold anyway, it doesn't bother them. They put Flowey on the porch next to them and sit to put on their boots.

"Ugh, she's so annoying," Flowey grumbles. He shapes his face into another imitation of Toriel. "'Oh, my child, the entire world depends on what you do! You are the future of humans and monsters! Oh, I'm so worried about your safety, I'll lock you up and make sure you can never leave! Everything is fine! La-di-da, I'll sit around and play house and pretend like I'm not responsible for anything that happens in the world outside!' I _ hate _ her."

Kris tries to unpick the knot in their stomach. It's a difficult task. They decide to just let their feelings fade naturally and focus on getting their boots on. Flowey talks on beside them.

"She's _ completely _ oblivious to how uncomfortable she makes you. It should be obvious from the way you act. But no, she'll just continue on and ask you about your stupid feelings and your stupid world and keep telling you not to play pranks because it's so dangerous! Never mind that you're wilting away under her nose. It's like she learned nothing at all."

They finish tying their boots. Their shoulders roll, trying to dislodge the tension gathered there. It doesn't work. Still they say nothing. Their sweater's fabric, worn thin from daily wear, doesn't comfort them when they run their hands across it.

It's not that Toriel is more demanding than their own mom, though she often is. Their discomfort around her comes from her behavior. Ever since she realized who Kris' parents were, she's been so committed to their safety, so quick to assume what they like and what they don't, that they always feel like she's looking through them instead of at them. She's lost a lot of kids, and they feel sorry for her, but she just makes them uncomfortable when she assumes they're the exact same person as Chara. They already have enough trouble feeling at home in their own skin. They don't need someone else superimposed over who they are.

They wish they could stop feeling guilty when she tells them off. It would make everything so much easier.

"Seriously, if it weren't for Frisk, I'd have already gone back to the mountain. Burned all her stuff down first, of course. She doesn't deserve a nice place like this. Which reminds me." 

They glance at him. He's smiling, sharpened teeth showing. "We should ruin something of hers. Something big. I'm thinking we should blow up her car."

"I'd really rather not."

"Come on. You know you want to. You'll feel better if you wreck something. And who deserves to have their stuff wrecked more than her?"

Kris traces their fingers across the matchbox in their pocket. They look out at the small yard. It's much more tame than the one at home. Their own yard has forest to fence it. This one is a plain grassy plot, surrounded by white picket fence, with only a small swing set to liven up the space. The only interesting thing to see is the mountain, towering over the city like a giant overlooking its toys. Its foothills encroach into this part of town, but they've never actually been to the mountain proper. They've never wanted to before.

There's forest there. Trees. Hills to climb. Quiet. Nobody ever goes up the mountain. The noise of the suburbs will be gone. They can get away from this house and the woman inside. And, most importantly, there will be wood for kindling.

They stand. "We're climbing the mountain."

"That's so lame. Really, you don't have any ideas?"

"We can set a bonfire up there."

"You don't _ need _to worry about how it'll affect her, you know. She's not your actual mom. When you leave, you won't be coming back. It doesn't matter if you disappoint her. Her expectations are stupid anyway."

"Flowey, please. I need to get away from here."

He studies them. Like Toriel, his eyes search them down to their core, but they don't break their gaze. It's a token of trust that they're willing to look him in the eye, and he knows it as well as they do. Mischief replaces malice in his smile. "Fine. Let's go. But you owe me."

The pressure doesn't ease when they're out of the backyard. The neat rows of houses stare blindly at them. Every sensation scrapes them like sandpaper against an open wound: the children laughing in the backyard nearby, the sounds of cars on another street, a chilly breeze blowing their hair against their neck, a tag on the back of their shirt sliding against their flesh, the flowerpot in their arms. The knot in their stomach pulls so tight they feel they might snap. Their gait becomes a jog, and then a run, then a full sprint, racing to the mountain in the distance.

Kris often feels like a foreigner in their own skin. Even when they aren't possessed, it's hard for them to feel like it's completely theirs. It's clumsy, slow, and their sensory issues can jerk them around as surely as the Player can. There's a disconnect between their body and soul that's rarely bridged. But as their heart starts pounding double-time against the drum of their chest, as their muscles transform distress into exertion, something finally clicks into place. They're still hyper-aware of their body, but now the sensations seem less like enemies and more like a sign of their control. Pain in their muscles only means that they're choosing to push themself. They're overcoming the unwelcome feelings, and that control is such a relief that they sprint even faster. The houses fly past.

They never understood why their brother chose track as his sport before they were possessed. Running seemed painful and pointless, unless you were running towards or away from something. Now, with their blood singing in their veins, they can understand his choice. It's the easiest way to remind themself that they're still alive. It's painful, but it's also exhilarating.

They wonder if Flowey used to like running.

They pass from the street out into a field. It's uphill, but Kris doesn't care. They push, and push, and push, feet flying over the grass. They keep running even though their lungs scream at them. It's only when they can't breathe for coughing that they slow. They stumble to a tree and lean against it, panting. Their vision is blurred. It's not enough. Restlessness still lurks under their skin.

"Wow, you run a lot faster than you look like you could," Flowey observes. "I would have thought you'd trip every five steps, the way that you walk. I was ready to catch myself in case you accidentally dropped me."

They don't reply. They're coughing. Their legs are buzzing with unspent adrenaline.

"Geez, when you said 'climb the mountain,' I didn't think you meant 'cough up my lungs before we're even in the foothills.' We don't have to go fast. You can just walk like a normal person."

"Felt… good to run," they cough. They don't slide down the tree, given how rough its bark feels, instead crouching and then sitting with their back against the tree. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds. They squint at it, wishing it would go away. It's too bright.

"Yeah, I can see that, idiot. Let me out of the pot."

Their hands are shaking, but they manage to scoop him out of the pot, roots and all. They put him on the ground. His roots squirm, pushing into the ground until he's fully planted. The sight always makes them feel mildly sick. They've spent a lot of time helping their dad with his flowers. Roots aren't supposed to move like that. 

"Much better. It's kind of annoying to be potted, you know. You should take me out here more often."

"Glad you… like it here."

There's a silence again as he explores his new environment. Kris tucks their knees into their chest. Adrenaline still burns their veins. Their lungs hurt. The restlessness scrapes, scrapes, scrapes inside their skin. They try to focus on what won't bother them: fingertips tapping against their knees, air in their lungs, the heart banging like a gun in their chest. Breath. Pain. They close their eyes. The minutes pass.

Slowly, the air they swallow turns less shaky. They aren't cold anymore. Sweat is beading under their sweater, making their undershirt stick to their skin. It's distinctly unpleasant. They tug at their clothes, run a hand through their hair. They're shaking still. They need to light something on fire soon; the pressure in them threatens to rip them open if they don't find a way to quench it.

"Hey, Kris. Is it a soul thing when you get like this?"

They glance at Flowey. His eyes are narrowed as he looks them over. "I haven't forgotten our promise. If that thing is acting up, I'll rip it out of you and teach it a lesson."

Kris forgets far too often just what it is they share with him. It's not the easy affection they have for their own version of Asriel. It's not just dark jokes and a taste for destruction. Kris and Flowey know what it means to have their natures buried, to be trapped inside a body that feels foreign to them, to lose who they once were through no fault of their own. They both know what it's like for time itself to be an enemy. They both understand how numb violence can make a person, and how easily the things that once mattered can slip away. They're lonely, bitter, unhappy people, and Kris trusts in Flowey's cruelty far more than they do Frisk's kindness. He'll be brutal to keep their heart beating. They'd do the same for him.

Frisk worries that the friendship means that Flowey and Kris are trying to replace each of their missing siblings, but that's not it at all. Flowey isn't Asriel. Kris isn't Chara. Neither of them will ever fill the role the other's sibling left behind. Neither want to. They need each other because nobody else understands the lives they've lived. It's as simple as that.

Kris feels a little warmer. They shake their head. "You don't need to. This just happens sometimes. I'll be okay. It's been happening my whole life."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I think my body just wants me to lay down and decompose in this field. It's trying to become one with nature and doesn't like that I keep stopping it."

Flowey smirks. The concern on his face vanishes. "I have become one with nature. Not recommended. If you really want to try it, though, I'll beat you to death and see what happens!"

Kris laughs a little. It's hollow. They get to their feet. "Hard pass. Let's just keep moving."

They don't get to the top of the mountain. Nice as it would have been to see the entrance to the Underground, Kris has a hard enough time getting even halfway up the mountain. They stumble enough times on the hike that Flowey eventually gets annoyed at them. Eventually, in between the banter, Kris has to admit they can't go to the top. Their legs and lungs ache too much.

They find a good spot to build their fire. It's rocky, little vegetation around, but it's high up enough that they can see the city. Sunshine makes Kris squint, but it's probably a good thing that it's daytime. The mountain is protected land. Starting fires on it is probably illegal, and in the night, it would be pretty easy to see the bonfire. They don't want to give Toriel a heart attack if they get arrested.

They gather wood. Flowey is much more efficient at it than they are, what with his vines. It's kind of impressive how much he manages to haul up to the spot. By the time Kris asks him to stop, there's a woodpile half as tall as they are. 

"You're always so slow getting a fire started," Flowey complains as he watches them stack twigs. "We could just douse the whole thing in lighter fluid and light it up."

"It burns longer when you take the trouble to do it right," they tell him. Kindling, twigs, sticks, logs, stacked the way their brother taught them so many years ago. "You never learned how to build a campfire?"

"Nah. I didn't need to. I set a ton of stuff on fire over the resets, but I never needed to do that. Seemed too boring." They can hear his grin in his voice. "You should have seen how much mayhem I caused. It was awesome."

"You'd get along well with my friend Susie. She loves that stuff. More than me, even. I'll introduce you two if Dr. Alphys ever opens up that interdimensional portal."

"That's a big if. Alphys is an idiot. By my last count, she's accidentally created eight undead abominations, just by messing around with a bit of Determination. I'm surprised at how often she manages to find her way out of bed in the mornings."

Kris' stomach hurts. "Yeah."

"I mean, it's going to be a long, _ long _ wait if that's what you're hoping will get you home. You're better off just hoping that random glitch lets you through again."

They shrug, trying to sound glib. "Guess I'm stuck building fires with you till the end of time."

"It'll get boring. We should do something crazy sometime. You and I, we're really capable of tearing up this town. No violence, obviously. But something big."

"Like starting a rock band? I can see it now. 'Floral Troublemakers.' I'll be the keyboardist."

"We'll have screaming vocals. I'll use my demon face. We'll set fireworks."

"Frisk can play drums," they agree. They stack twigs into an intricate lattice. "And do songwriting. All about the power of peace."

"You mean, in between all their dumb ambassador activities?" There's definite bitterness there. "Nah. They're better off just being our biggest fan. And suggesting that we don't write songs about destroying things."

"You're mad at them." It's a surprise. They'd assumed Frisk and Flowey were getting along fine. 

"I can't be mad, idiot. I don't get real feelings. They're just annoying."

"Why are they annoying?"

He's scowling when they look at him. "None of your business."

Kris waits.

"Ugh, fine! They've been gone so much lately. I get bored. And they still show up and go, _ don't be so destructive, please keep it reined in, you've gotta try to be good now. _ It bugs me."

"They're trying to do their best."

He scowls even more. "You don't even know what it was like before you showed up. They kept asking me if I'd tell Toriel and Asgore who I was. Said I needed 'closure.' They keep trying to get me to talk about my problems with someone. They're a good person, but they don't get it. They just don't."

"Get what?"

"I don't have a soul. Obviously, I can't be fixed. I've said it a billion times, but they're an idiot. They keep telling me that I can be better even as I am. Like I believe that they mean it. I know they just want to see cute little Asriel again. That's what everyone wants: the sweet prince, so tragically cut down in his youth, back from the dead to be perfect again." He winks, sticking out his tongue in an exaggeratedly cute gesture. "Perfect! Kind! Adorable! Everyone's best friend! That's what everyone always expects me to be when they find out. And they always try so hard to fix me until I can be that! But it's not ever gonna work. Frisk just doesn't understand that yet."

Kris frowns. "I don't expect that. I like you the way you are."

"See? It's kind of hilarious. You've recently lost your version of him. But you're the only person who doesn't wish I was him, even though you miss him."

The knot in their stomach from before still hasn't disappeared. They remember how Toriel looks through them. She's looking at someone long dead, not the lonely, messed-up kid they actually are. They think of the years they spent wishing they were someone else. They think of their Asriel, pushing so hard to be perfect that he's bound to break. They think of Frisk, their careful, worried movements, as if terrified that a single mistake will shatter their world like glass. 

"I get how that feels," they finally say. "Having everyone wish you were someone you aren't. Someone who's nicer and shinier. Less messy. It sucks. I'm not gonna make you go through that."

"And that's why I hang out with you." His falsely bright smile dims into something more real. "You actually get it."

There are very few things that can knock Kris down and wring homesickness out of them anymore. Flowey's sincere smile is one of them. They can see the lovely boy he used to be, before he died and came back like this. Asriel's absence, so often dull, is sharp enough to cut them open. It's only polite to look away. Their soul hurts like a twisting knife.

It would be hypocritical of them to deny that they sometimes see glimmers of Asriel in Flowey, just as he most likely sees glimmers of Chara in them. Neither can help it. There will always be times where Flowey has to look away, times where Kris has to catch their breath. In those moments, all either can think about is what they've lost, and how agonizing that loss is. It's as natural a consequence of their friendship as fire growing from a lit match would be. 

Kris can't choose not to have those feelings. What they can choose is what to do with the feelings. They think of their bond with Flowey, how much his friendship means to them, how much he needs to be loved for what he is. He's not the dead prince. He's not their older brother. He's Flowey, the messed-up kid who loves setting fires, who gets easily bored, who's violent and mean and who Kris loves better than anyone else in this world. They choose to see him for what he is. It's the choice they'll always make. 

It'll always be the choice he'll make, too. Even soulless, Flowey cares enough about them that he won't inflict that cruelty on them. They know that as surely as they know their name isn't Chara. He won't make them be anything other than themself.

They look down into the valley. A thousand buildings wink in the afternoon sunlight. Skyscrapers try and fail to touch faraway clouds. More mountains rise up in the distance. The sea sparkles like a diamond under light. Below them, the forest is a vibrant bristle of green. Kris knows that Asriel would love the sight if he was here. They drink in the too-perfect sight and think of how they'll tell him later. It's the easiest way to quench their ache.

Well, except for one thing.

When they turn back, it's only Flowey watching them. No traces of Asriel remain on his face. They smile at him and pull out the lighter fluid. "Here. Let's light 'em up."

His smile is sharp as a knife, gleeful as a child. A vine takes the bottle out of their hand and unscrews the cap. "Hell yeah! I thought you'd forgotten why we're here."

"Swear jar. Someone's been playing too much Xbox Live."

He sticks out his tongue. "I blew all my money on those water balloons last week. You'll have to pay for me."

Kris laughs. "Of course you did."

He finishes pouring the fluid on the stack of wood and tosses the empty bottle down the hill with no regard to how it'll land. The smirk he gives them is all challenge. "You're up, bestie."

Kris pulls the matches out. Their hands are still shaking, restlessness pushing through every muscle, but they scrape a match down the rough side of the box. A spark lights. They grin, stepping back from the pile of wood. "Ready?"

"Bring it."

They toss the match. It sails, a firefly arcing through the air, and lands on the wood. Fire springs up like it was waiting for its cue. The heat scorches Kris' face even from their distance. The sheet of fire dances, dances, dances, a conflagration of autumn colors. It's beautiful. It's bright. They can feel their disquiet going up in smoke. 

They grin down at Flowey and ignore the pain in their chest. It'll fade eventually. "Nice."

"It's not that big. You're easily impressed."

"We'll do something bigger next time."

"We'd better. I'm going to bug you if you back out."

"You already bug me. But sure."

"I can bug you more! You underestimate my talents. You're in for some nasty surprises…"

Flowey talks on. The fire's glow sedates their chills. They banter with promises of arson, and let the past slide away to the world it came from. They have no need to run after it. They're laughing too hard to remember it exists.


End file.
